My Sweetheart
by Northumbrian
Summary: The day after Valentine's Day, Lavender Brown receives an unexpected envelope.


**My Sweetheart**

After pulling on his plain white t-shirt, Mark Moon slipped on his shirt and ran his fingers through his almost dry hair. A quick glance in the central of the three mirrors on his girlfriend's dressing table was enough to ascertain that the way he wore his shirt was likely acceptable. His hair, however, was another matter, was tidy enough?

As he stared at his reflection, he tilted his head and caught sight of his profile in one of the side-mirrors. It wasn't something he ever did, and his nose surprised him by being longer than he thought. He tried ignore it, and his chin, and concentrated on his hair. Was it okay? If there was a fault to be found Lavender would find it and berate him. She'd call him hopeless, or useless, but that didn't matter, because it was good-useless. He'd long-since learned the difference between being good-useless and merely useless. Forgetting the name of his girlfriend's aunt despite having just been introduced, and thus embarrassing Lavender, that was useless. Being useless would get him in trouble.

Having messy hair was different. She'd still _call_ him useless, but it would be teasingly, indulgently. She'd then proceed to fix it. There was little he found more relaxing than listening to her chatter and fuss as she tidied his hair to her satisfaction. Looking back into the mirror, he ruffled it a little more.

Picking up the fluffy pink towel he'd used to dry himself, Mark walked out onto the landing. 'I'll put the kettle on,' he called through the bathroom door.

'Mm-mm.' The nasal noise was one of approval. Water was running; she was cleaning her teeth.

Mark took the stairs two at a time. Once in the kitchen, he threw the damp towel over the back of a chair, filled her bright pink kettle, and placed it on the stove. Her flower-patterned—the flowers were lavenders, of course—bone china teapot sat ready on a carved wooden tray, with it was a single, matching, cup and saucer. The guest cups hung on hooks under a shelf that was set at her eye-level, not his. He had to bend down to see the one lonely mug. That cuckoo in the nest of cups was his.

She'd presented it to him when he'd arrived the previous afternoon, right after she'd put the bouquet he'd brought her into a vase. Her Valentine's Day card had arrived at his flat that morning, and he hadn't expected anything else from her. Getting a Valentine's card was enough of a novelty for him, he'd never had a present, too. Placing the as yet unused mug on the tray, he smiled. She liked him to use a cup and saucer, but she'd bought him the mug. He knew that she wouldn't begrudge him the use of it, particularly as this would be the first time.

He'd had a toothbrush in her bathroom for a few months, and now he had a mug in her kitchen. He tried to dampen his elation. Lavender still didn't like him to tell her he loved her. Whenever he tried, she interrupted forcefully. She would cut him off mid-sentence, even—on one occasion—mid-sex. She had never said those words to him. She never used the word, not even when they were in bed. What they had was sex, and he was her boyfriend, not her lover. It had taken him a long time to move from friend to boyfriend, he could wait.

Finding a suitable Valentine's card for her had taken him an entire day. She loved twee verses, the soppier the better, but finding one without the word love in it had been one of the most difficult quests he'd ever undertaken. He'd eventually triumphed and, from her reaction it seemed to Mark, that things were moving in the right direction.

They were, weren't they? Self-doubt assailed him.

Suddenly feeling a little gloomy, he cheered himself up by examining his black mug. "World's! Best! Boyfriend!" it proclaimed in vivid yellow letters. In many ways the over-used exclamation mark epitomised his girlfriend. He'd joked about it. "Exclamation! Mark!" she'd said, taking his words as a challenge. There was no denying that he'd exclaimed. He was again smiling happily to himself as he sought out the milk jug and sugar basin, and placed them on the kitchen table.

He looked around. The towel he'd used was still draped over the chair. It should be hung out to dry. Leaving it on the chair would make him useless, and not good-useless. He looked around her kitchen, and set himself another challenge. There was a washing line in her garden, so there must be pegs, but where? He took a guess, choosing the cupboard furthest from the back door.

He was right. That meant he was beginning to understand how she organised things; badly, in his opinion—but at least he understood the method in her inefficiency. The cupboard was full of cleaning products, and the peg-bag was hanging on a hook inside the door. It wasn't simply a plain bag, it was a miniature low-cut pink dress. Rather self-consciously shoving a hand down the cleavage, he grabbed four pegs, walked the length of the kitchen and opened the door into her garden.

It was a fine February morning; chilly, but sunny. The overnight frost had been banished from all but the most shaded parts of Lavender's garden. After hanging the towel on the washing line, Mark turned to head back indoors. He was reaching for the handle when the owl swooped down. Flapping fiercely, and creating a cooling draft that reminded him that his hair was still damp, it landed on an arm of the purple-painted bench next to the door and coolly assessed him. As it tilted its head, it seemed to Mark that the bird was glaring.

The letter the owl carried looked rather bulky. The address; Miss L Brown, Thyme Cottage, The Street, Appledore, Kent, was written in an untidy scrawl. Mark didn't recognise the handwriting, but there was no reason why he should. When he reached forward to take the letter, the owl fluttered away and landed on the other arm of the chair. It continued to regard him with suspicion.

'She's in the bathroom,' Mark said.

The owl stared unblinkingly, unmoved by his explanation.

'I can take it for her,' he suggested.

The owl re-examined him carefully.

'You can trust me, I'm her boyfriend, and I'm Scottish Magical Law Enforcement. I'm a Bailiff for the High Sheriff of Scotland,'

The owl finally, and rather reluctantly, lifted its head. Mark reached out his hand, and the owl released the letter into his care. As he examined the envelope carefully the owl gave him one final, assessing, look and soared off into the sky. Whatever he held, it was definitely more than a mere letter. The envelope was surprisingly heavy. Was someone else sending her a Valentine? If they were, he thought smugly, they were a day late. She definitely wouldn't like that!

Hearing the kettle beginning its whistle, Mark hurried into the kitchen. After propping the letter on the kitchen table, between the milk jug and sugar basin, he lifted her caddy from the shelf, pulled out a couple of teabags, and made pot of tea. That done, he walked to the bottom of the stairs.

'Tea's made, Lavender,' he called. 'D'you want toast?'

'Please.'

'Oh, and you've had an owl.'

'Who from?' she called from her bedroom.

'No idea,' he admitted. 'I don't recognise the handwriting. But it's not just a letter, there's something else in the envelope.'

'Wait there,' she ordered firmly. 'Don't move, and don't touch it!'

Lavender appeared at the top of the stairs, seconds later. Her hair was wrapped in a towel turban, and she was still trying to tie the belt on a thick, and very fluffy, lilac dressing gown. She wasn't doing a very good job, it was open almost to her navel.

With eyes wide, he watched her bounce down the stairs. When she stopped, two stairs from the bottom, he pulled his eyes up to her face, and tried to concentrate on her eyes. It wasn't easy. Apart from the obvious distractions to his gaze, his treacherous brain had also decided that now would be a good time to try to calculate how many dressing gowns she owned. There was: the orange, flower-print kimono; that red silk thing that barely covered her backside; the black lace one; and that completely transparent white one, which…

His count was interrupted, because she threw her arms over his shoulders and kissed him.

'Your face!' she exclaimed a couple of minutes later. 'You'd think you'd never seen them before, and you were soaping them only half an hour ago! Still clean, see.' After a quick flash, she pushed past him. 'Now, where's this letter?'

'On the kitchen table.'

Picking up her brass letter knife from the hall table, and pulling her wand from her dressing gown pocket, Lavender strode into her kitchen. Bewildered, Mark followed. Looking down at the letter, she sighed, and put the wand back in her pocket.

'I was worried it might be booby-trapped,' Lavender admitted.

'The only thing booby-trapped in here…' Mark began.

She put on a serious expression and pulled her still-gaping dressing gown closed. Chastened, he fell silent.

'It won't be trapped. I recognise that handwriting. I wonder why he…' her voice tailed off.

He! Mark had no idea who this particular he was. A small part of him wanted to ask, but a much larger part didn't want to know. Despite having been with her for more than a year, any reminder of her many exes worried him. It wasn't that he was jealous, not exactly. However, every time they were mentioned the worms of worry about his worth, usually dormant in his mind, were excited to the point where they wriggled into his consciousness to whisper their many and varied fears. The exes were without doubt all richer, or stronger, or cleverer, or better looking, or more exciting, or more passionate than he. He was merely an ex in waiting.

She took the letter knife, sliced open the envelope, and tipped out its contents onto the table. When the thick gold chain landed heavily on the table, self-doubt wrapped its strong hands around his throat and prevented him from speaking. Letters forming the words "My Sweetheart" dangled from the chain.

Mark's heart stopped, he struggled to breathe, and he silently wondered which "he" would be sending her such jewellery. It was the day after Valentine's Day, so it was late. But it was gold.

He watched his girlfriend slip into a daydream. Her wistful expression was another body-blow, but still he said nothing. Stony-faced, he simply watched as Lavender pulled out the letter, and read it. It didn't take her long. With a smile, and a shake of her head, she finally looked up at him.

'You look worried, what's the matter?' she asked. She appeared to be completely unconcerned, and genuinely puzzled by his expression. He tried to make sense of what he'd just witnessed.

'I'm wondering who's sending you jewellery for a Valentine,' he admitted, failing to keep his voice neutral.

The spark in her eyes and mischievous smile on her face arrived and vanished in an instant, leaving him uncertain as to whether he'd really seen them. Faced with silence, and an enigmatic and inscrutable expression, he waited while she pondered over her reply. In the end she didn't give one, she simply handed him the letter. It was written in the same large and untidy hand as was the address.

 _We're moving out of London._

 _I'd forgotten about this. It was at the back of a drawer. I found it while I was packing._

 _It's yours, and it's never been worn._

 _Sorry._

'It's unsigned,' Mark said, trying to determine the meaning of the words.

'No signature needed,' said Lavender softly. 'I know who sent it.' Her eyes were unfocussed. After a few seconds, she looked into his face. 'D'you like it?' She pushed the heavy chain over the table towards him.

He wanted to say "It's awful," but it was obvious from her face that it meant something to her. He couldn't be that cruel. 'Not particularly,' he admitted, aiming for a neutral reply.

From the chain, his eyes moved to her hand. She wasn't yet dressed, but she already had rings on her fingers and thumb, and a plaited bracelet of three fine gold chains around her wrist. With a sinking feeling, he realised. 'But…' he hesitated.

'But?' she demanded.

'But it's the sort of thing you like,' he admitted. 'And it looks expensive. Whoever bought it obviously knows your tastes.'

For some reason, she laughed uproariously at his insight. 'Intimately,' she admitted.

His face fell, and she simply laughed more.

'Oh, Emmsy, you are so sweet, and so perfectly correct. And, at the same time, you're so wonderfully, terribly, wrong.' Leaning across the table, she took his hand in hers, and held it tightly. 'I thought it was perfect when…' Stopping mid-sentence, she stared into his eyes. 'Would _you_ wear it?' she asked.

'Me?' he was confused. 'Not exactly my style, is it?'

There was a faraway look in her eyes. 'It's a present, for my boyfriend,' she said with quiet conviction.

He stared into her face. She seemed to be telling him the truth. But that didn't make sense. She was, he knew from experience, a really good liar. Defeated, and with no idea whether or not she was being honest, he did what he always did in such circumstances, he went along with her.

'It's for me?' he asked, failing to keep the incredulity from his questions. 'Do you really want me to wear it?'

She nodded. He stared at the thick gold chain, and looked again at her wrist. Those chains were fine and feminine. This was solid, was it supposed to be masculine? Was it really for him?

'Okay!' Shrugging, he picked it up, and fumbled with the catch. She grabbed his hand, and smiled.

'You're really going to wear it?' she asked.

He nodded.

'Why?' she asked.

He had a sudden insight. _"It's a present, for my boyfriend,"_ , she'd said.

'When did you buy it?' he asked.

She opened her mouth to reply, then shook her head. 'Answer my question, first,' she told him.

'I'll wear it because you gave it to me, and because you asked me to,' he admitted.

Her smile told him that was the right answer.

'I bought it when I was sixteen. He never wore it. And you're my sweetheart, now,' she told him, looking into his face. As he smiled, her eyes were drawn upwards. 'Despite your hair! What have you done with it this time? Sit!'

He did as she requested. Stepping in front of him, she lifted his chin, and tilted her head to one side.

'Useless!' she tutted, running her fingers gently through his hair. Shaking her head, she sighed. 'It's no good. _Accio brush_.'

She leant forwards. His gaze moved from her wryly smiling lips down to her neck, and then lower. When he placed his hands on her hips, he contrived to pull her dressing gown open a little more.

'I'm trying to concentrate,' she told him.

'So am I,' he assured her.


End file.
